Minjun didn't go home. He didn't even know where "home" was anymore — his trainee dorm felt like a cell, and the practice rooms were haunted by songs that hurt too much to hear alone.
Instead, he stepped off the curb and just walked.
Seoul was awake and roaring by midday — delivery bikes weaving through traffic, shopkeepers yelling over crates of vegetables, neon café signs flickering to life for the lunch crowd. He wandered through it all like a ghost.
He called Jiwoo again — straight to voicemail. He texted: Hyung, where are you? Just tell me you're okay.No reply.
He scrolled through old photos. Rooftop selfies, half-eaten cup noodles balanced on a guitar case, Jiwoo's grin half-hidden behind his long fringe. Minjun wanted to punch himself for every second he'd wasted chasing something shinier than this.
He started with the places they used to haunt before the contract. The ramen stand behind the old recording studio — the owner recognized him, bowed deep, asked for a selfie for her daughter. But she hadn't seen Jiwoo in weeks.
The dingy karaoke room where they'd sneak in after hours, pay the ajusshi extra to stay till dawn — empty now, lights flickering. The owner muttered something about kids chasing ghosts and waved him away.
He checked the tiny basement club where Jiwoo used to busk before they were "Starline's bright new thing." The bartender shrugged. Skinny kid with guitar? Haven't seen him. Might try Hongdae — lots of street buskers there now.
So Minjun rode the subway to Hongdae, heart rattling as fast as the train. He stepped out into the crush of weekend crowds — students in oversized jackets, couples with matching sneakers, tourists chasing neon signs. Music bled from every corner: drum kits thumping, singers crooning over cheap amps, dancers spinning on battered cardboard.
He wove through it all, listening for his sound. Jiwoo's chords were rough but warm — he could always pick them out in a mess of polished covers and empty show-offs. But tonight, there was nothing familiar. Just kids chasing coins and dreams, same as they had.
He dropped a few coins in an old busker's guitar case, asked about Jiwoo. The man just shook his head, eyes glazed. Too many kids come and go, son.
By midnight, the summer air had turned sticky and sour. Minjun sat on the curb, breathless, legs aching. He didn't even care that people recognized him — Hey, aren't you that Starline boy? They snapped blurry pictures of him hunched over his phone, hair plastered to his forehead.
He didn't look up. He scrolled, searching Jiwoo's socials — abandoned for weeks. He messaged old trainees, old contacts, even the rooftop landlord. Have you seen him? Please. Please.
At 3 AM, his phone finally buzzed. An unknown number. His heart slammed against his ribs.
[Unknown]
Stop looking for him, Minjun. Let him be.
Minjun stared at the message. He typed: Who is this? Where is he?No reply.
He read it again and again. Something inside him sparked — anger cutting through the exhaustion like a blade. He knew who it had to be.
He pulled himself to his feet, legs trembling. He knew where he had to go — one last place. A rooftop that wasn't their rooftop, but the only other place Jiwoo might run to when the world burned too bright.
The old apartment where Jiwoo's cousin used to crash — an ancient walk-up in a neighborhood being chewed up by new construction. Minjun had been there once, months ago, when Jiwoo dragged him up narrow stairs to a half-finished roof garden that was really just three broken chairs and an ashtray full of bottle caps.
Minjun sprinted through the empty streets, past sleeping shops and shuttered stalls. His bag bounced against his back with every step.
When he reached the building, dawn was clawing at the sky again. He pushed through the busted stairwell door and climbed. Two steps at a time. Breath burning his throat raw.
At the top, he slammed the roof door open.
And there he was.
Jiwoo sat alone on the concrete ledge, battered guitar across his knees. Hoodie pulled up, eyes half-shut against the wind. He looked thinner, older, like the city had scraped pieces off him in the weeks they'd been apart.
He didn't look surprised to see Minjun. He just strummed a chord — a single note that wavered in the cold dawn air.
"You're late, Rooftop Boy," Jiwoo said, voice rough. "I've been up here all night."
Minjun stepped forward, chest aching. "I looked everywhere."
Jiwoo's eyes flicked to him, tired but still sharp. "Why? You got what you wanted, didn't you?"
Minjun shook his head. He dropped his bag at Jiwoo's feet, the contract he'd torn up stuffed inside. "Not without you."
Jiwoo stared at the bag, then at Minjun — like he didn't dare believe it. "You really threw it away?"
Minjun's voice cracked. "I'd throw it away a thousand times if it meant you'd come back."
They stood like that, the sunrise creeping up behind them — two silhouettes on a battered rooftop, guitar strings humming between them like a heartbeat.
Minjun stepped closer. Jiwoo didn't move away.